


The Dead Girls of London

by Glassdarkly



Series: SB Fag Ends Drabbles and Short Fics: BtVS season 7 [13]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, Guilt, Hallucinations, Mental Breakdown, Season/Series 07, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-03
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2018-04-24 15:34:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4925185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glassdarkly/pseuds/Glassdarkly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Home may be where the heart is, but the heart is black and rotting in its grave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dead Girls of London

**Author's Note:**

> First posted to SB Fag Ends Livejournal Comm in September 2015
> 
> Theme: Trivial Pursuits  
> Prompt: Geography (blue) - Where does Spike stop on his way back from Africa?

He stops off in Blighty on his way back to Sunnydale.

Go home to old London town, hole up somewhere familiar for a bit, lick his wounds. Give himself a good talking to.

That was the plan.

But you can't go home. Not when there's a murder on every corner and the murderer is always you. 

Corpses piled on corpses, from Bayswater to Barking. Men, women, children. All dead by his hand.

Except the dead aren't usually so chatty, are they? Aren't usually so in your face either, with their torn throats and their screaming lips.

Sod off, he tells them, but they laugh at him with mouths full of blood, and press in closer. 

He can still see them, even with his eyes shut.

He could swear blind he saw Mother among them the other day, large as life, twice as fanged, eyes full of shame and fury. Spitting poison at him, and worst of all, _singing_.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. A soul was supposed to fix him. Make him fit for...

He's not even sure fit for what any more. But it was supposed to make him better.

It was supposed to help him work out what to say when he saw her next, since, "Sorry I tried to rape you, Slayer. Won't do it again. Let's be best mates," seems a bit bloody inadequate. 

But it's not done any of that. 

(Blackness claws at the edges of his mind. The dead of London drift up like oily smoke from behind area railings, point accusing fingers, click their skeleton teeth, clutch at him with their bony hands. Then they try to drag him down, down, into the dark, where they can devour him at their leisure).

_From beneath you..._

More like it's driven him crazy.


End file.
